


Job Offer

by apocellipses



Series: Snippets 2019 [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Necromancy, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 07:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocellipses/pseuds/apocellipses
Summary: Riddick gets a proposal from a rival.





	Job Offer

Riddick’s blood drives in icy rivulets through his veins. The door to his workshop explodes shut behind him. 

She sits with one leg crossed over the other, an immovable barrier placed between him and his workbench. 

His arms are full of evergreen boughs, local soil, bird’s feathers, jars of rainwater. Portions of things meant to turn into magical energy. His channeling crook reacts to his jolted nerves, nearly moving to his defense before he shoots it a warning glance. Her eyes move with his and catch the dim yellow glow that surrounds its polished wood. 

Regional Officer Fortesia Wylde, reporting for duty. 

He knows the officers here hate him. But enough for Windswept’s highest regulator to trespass on his bloody property?

He puts the materials on the floor. “Can I help you?” 

She uncrosses her very armored legs. Beside her, leaning on the chair, is a barbarian’s crossbow, a hulking, taut thing that’s been trained to attack without warning. 

“I hope so.” 

Riddick’s crook trembles in the corner as she leans forwards, hand on knee, inspecting him like a shepherd might a newborn alpaca. 

“I need something done, and I need a necromancer to do it.”

“Necromancy,” he says solemnly, “is illegal in Rift’s Central.” 

Her laugh splits the air like a whip. 

“Tyrie,” she says. “Please.” 

Riddick grits his teeth. “I don’t go by that name.” 

“I will pay you handsomely for your services,” she continues, like a sled cutting through a snowdrift, “and I will dispose of any evidence that my officers may have collected against you. I will ensure that you’re never pursued by the law again.” 

Now that's an offer.

He pulls down his hood, scratches his scraggly beard. “What if I refuse?”

“Then I leave here and find someone nearly as capable to replace you.” 

His eyes slide downwards again to the weapon that leans casually in the shadows. “And I won’t have any sort of encounter with that crossbow?”

“Not,” she says, “unless you breathe a word of this encounter to anyone.” 

To whom? His clients? Most of them will have reason to kill him themselves if he reveals that a cop is aware of his magic use. 

“I’d need some time to consider it.” He tries to tiptoe, verbally, and not to startle her or her crossbow. “And to finish some business.” Officer Wylde’s appearance in his workshop gives him the distinct feeling that his other clients’ business will fall by the wayside

“That’s off the table, Tyrie.”

“Do _not_ call me that.” His voice, then her eyebrows, are raised. He purses his lips. “Officer. It’s Riddick. Please.” 

“This offer expires when I leave this…” Her gaze wanders the walls, the mildewed ceiling, the cracked wooden benches and bookshelves that needed a good dusting. Riddick rather thinks it creates an air of homely mystery, but she seems put off by the dirtiness. “This … establishment.” 

“Ah. Then. Would you like,” he flounders, “something to drink?” 

“No.” 

“Ah.” 

He gives in and lets his crook fly to him. It trembles with magical energy that, thankfully, is no longer visible to the naked eye. It bears his weight when he leans on it.

“What does this… job… entail?” 

“Surely you are aware, given what you do, that there has been an increase of hostile spirits in Windswept.” 

Riddick’s laugh is short and humorless. “Of course. But I don’t do combat. It’s in the contract you’d—” 

Her voice slaps him silent. “Unless, of course, your duty as a citizen of this city required it.” 

Riddick falters. He pays his taxes and goes to coronations, knows the local politicians’ names and an approximation of their stances. Somehow, the other half of his civic duty has managed to slip his mind. 

“Of course,” he says weakly. 

The smile in the officer’s eyes is as cool and mutable as raw silver. “As Windswept’s Regional Officer, I am calling upon you as part of a small party that will journey to the source of these spirits’ powers and—”

He chokes. “You want me to go to the Rift?” 

“—and prevent them from reaching our borders any longer. Don’t be silly, Riddick. Everyone knows the Rift doesn’t exist.” 

To his horror, she winks. 

“You—you—you,” he says. Every word that came to his tongue feels frail as paper compared to the vast maw of raw magic that looms somewhere outside the country. “And—and—and remind me what you’re offering for this task.” 

“I’m offering,” and she leans back against the table, legs sprawled, like she’s in a tavern and not a covert meeting with a criminal, “to leave you alone, Riddick. For good.” 

“I’m… I’m going to make some tea,” he says, and makes it all the way through the doorway into his kitchen before his knees start to wobble. 

He stumps around with his crook as the water hesitates to boil. Usually he’d use a bit of magic to make it go faster, but he won’t risk it with her disrupting the falsework. This workshop is only standing because of his careful magical stitching. 

_Dog’s wool._ That’s the other thing. If he leaves for too long, this building might collapse in on itself. 

The water screams through the thin opening in the kettle. His mortar and pestle are out there on his workbench. He should really get a separate one for food, but they’re so expensive. Shredding the tea leaves by hand is going to have to do. 

She’s still sitting there. Her golden hair is braided like she rushed her maidservant through it this morning—all flying away from her head, forming a halo in the dim, sickly yellow light. An officer of the crown. In his shop. He sips his tea.

“Officer.” He finally speaks up. “I’m going to have to refuse your offer.” 

Her eyebrows arch. “Hmm.” 

“This is my shop,” he says, by way of explanation. 

“Too busy peddling your _wares_?” Her voice arches, too, with something approaching disgust. Riddick wants to zap her with his channeling crook. Instead, he finishes his tea. The leaves at the bottom form a big, fat X. 

He dumps them into the compost. Fortunetellers and tea readers are all full of air. 

“You’d be helping a lot of people by agreeing to this mission,” says Officer Wylde. “Fulfilling an important purpose.” 

“Yeah. You have my answer. The door’s right there.” 

"You'll change your mind." She stands. "But that's none of my business. Good day."

"Yeah, yeah..." And he closes the door firmly on her back.

**Author's Note:**

> obviously i didn't know how to end this lollll good thing it's going in my snippets series


End file.
